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Talk:In Your Head/ITA/@comment-35711173-20190924054105/@comment-30354437-20190924164255
There you go. It was a bit difficult to translate since it is quite bombastic, but I corrected every out-of-context term. For example, "imposta" in Italian means "tax" but also "window frame". In addition, some parts sounds awkward in Italian, too. ---- How many times have you lied to yourself? How many times have you blamed the wind? The branches of the trees, the drafts, which infiltrate and creep in, through worn and squeaky doors, they catch you and freeze your skin. And yet you saw it. For a fleeting moment, out of the corner of your eye. It wheezes in the dark, farther than the eye can see. It grins, unseen, as you, oblivious, go back to your chores, your attention caught by the luminous screen. Meanwhile, the sound of the crickets becomes faint, dull and silent. A shiver runs down the back, now as cold as ice; an atypical cold for a summer night, you should close the window. You stand up cautiously, with the caution of someone who feels he is being watched, in the silence of the night, in the shadows of those four narrow and gray walls. The heavy shutter requires some effort, reluctantly closing. You turn to the bed. Darkness. They say there is a line to how much a man can bear. You can die of indescribable pain, you can die gripped by horror; an inhuman and shapeless horror, fruit of the mephitic miasmas of an abyss of madness, which hides behind us. We tend to confine the horrors in the depths of the earth, in the remote pits of Tartarus; we delude ourselves that we can relegate it to the borders of the world, away from us. But the horrible penetrates us, fetid, it eviscerates and sad, it assailes and blind and mad executioner. It tears, chews, scourges, and shreds; with infinite and deformed teeth from a thousand twisted and slimy mouths. The pain is inhuman, there is no death to relieve from the torture of the flesh, of the slaughter of the shattered bones creaking under the sick mouths whining like sick dogs; tapered claws sever and dig the live and warm flesh that flakes and corrodes in the marriage of pain and death. A dreaded death that becomes desire for death, for the release from the undying and incessant pain of the mortal remains mangled and bleeding by the fetid and rattling jaws of the amorphous and atrocious horror. The bed is unmade, you spread the sheet badly, lying upset in a starless night. You repeat to yourself that your imagination is your downfall, that your shapeless and dark fantasies must remain confined in your head. On the other hand, they would know, if someone all of a sudden were to be found to be in pieces without a cause, that people die for real causes, we must fear the living and not the lies of the intellect. How many times have you lied to yourself? How many times have you turned your head in the pillow blaming the wind? How many times have you blamed your imagination? That perfect machine of horrors in your head, so vivid that they seem real. Real, in front of the intellect. One hundred twenty thousand people die of heart failure every year. Others have the misfortune to remain in a coma. To our eyes it seems a quick, natural, understandable death. However...